


nobody else (can take me higher)

by agent_izhyper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derek's Leather Jacket plays a prominent role, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster of the Week, Oblivious Trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_izhyper/pseuds/agent_izhyper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He glares over at Derek as he ducks behind a tree to avoid getting shot full of water. “If we end up knocked into the lake, I’m not hauling your heavy ass to safety again!” he yells.</p><p>Derek bares his teeth in response.</p><p>…Of course, Derek ends up getting hit on the head then thrown into the lake. And Stiles has to dive in after him because the betas are forcing the nymph back away from her power source; of course he does. This is their thing, after all, isn't it?</p><p>“If I catch pneumonia, this is all your fault,” Stiles mutters at Derek’s prone heavy form through chattering teeth. The asshole doesn’t reply.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>alternatively: five scenarios that end in pseudo-cuddles, not-quite-cuddles, and kinda-wishing-they-were-cuddles, and one where actual cuddling ensues (finally).</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (tiptoe higher)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxDodo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxDodo/gifts).



> Dedicated to Aelya, for being - to put it plainly - frankly a really fucking awesome friend over the course of these last three years. (!!!) I never would have thought that I’d get so close to someone I bonded with online over a book series and a band but then, that’s what makes this so bloody amazing. :) But yeah, yknow, I’m not one for sap (...*shiftily hides any evidence to the contrary ahem*) but I guess you deserve it, it being your special day and all… So here’s a little thing for being there throughout all the ups and downs, the heart-stopping feels of many show marathons, the near-hysterical weird-ass moments at 4am, those hella long emails and amusing texts (because why let a little distance hinder constant communication), the endless pokes and kicks and _everything else_ (sadly, I can’t sum up all our awesome moments, that would need like a hundred pages alone). I know I say it a lot, but I mean it, you are a seriously amazing person and friend and never let anyone tell you otherwise. So. Yeah. Thank you~ :3
> 
> Happy 17th!! (why are you growing up ._.)
> 
> ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> (I… that wasn’t sappy, it was heartfelt, there’s a difference *nods*)
> 
> (I think I made myself sad with nostalgia. Remember our young little selves way back in ‘11? *wistful sigh*)
> 
> ...Okay I’m done, I promise. Now enjoy some fluff, a lot of humor, and plenty of awkwardness!
> 
>  
> 
> _fic is set in happy!verse where derek still has a pack and everyone’s happy and alive_

 

**I.**

It is _freezing_ and Stiles has possibly never been so cold in his _life_.

Okay, so that may not be entirely true: One time when he was seven, he got stuck up in a tree and then it started _pouring down rain_ on his miserable little self. He’d waited almost an hour for Scott to run off in a panic for help and come back with Stiles’ dad. That had been awful, and cold, and so goddamn wet.

But that was beside the point. It wasn’t as if he’d _meant_ to get stuck in that tree when he’d climbed it. This time, though, he’d gone absolutely willingly into the cold snowy night and, needless to say, is now adding that decision to the distressingly long list of shit he’s regretted doing in his miserably short life. (At this rate, it will _remain_ miserably short because there is no way he’s surviving past eighteen. No way.)

“Remind me again,” he huffs, the words making white vapour burst in front of his face. “Why stakeout has to happen in the _middle of the night_ while it’s _snowing_?”

Beside him, Derek rolls his eyes (again). They’re both crouched behind some trees in the preserve. Somewhere opposite them are Scott and Isaac, also on the lookout. Scott had sniffed out some hunters (presumably, but Stiles is trying to be optimistic and not thinking about the possibility that it’s something else) and, well, since they’re all working on the _let’s join forces and stop butting heads every week because it’s enough that the universe wants to kill us, let’s be real here_ routine, they had decided to check it out together. Derek had a theory about hunters trying to lure them out on Hale grounds but to be honest Stiles had zoned out a little.

Okay, maybe a lot. (He blames the cold and trying to regain feeling in his fingers by rubbing them together. If _really_ pressed – or maybe if presented with a truth serum – he might admit a grudging awe of the perfect symmetry that is everything encompassing Derek’s stupid face. Actually, scratch that, he wouldn’t admit that unless under pain of death.)

“You didn’t have to come,” Derek reminds him.

Stiles makes a dubious face at his profile. “Please. So you could go and get stuck behind a barricade of mountain ash again? Unable to move because you’re all _werewolves_? You need me here, don’t deny it.”

Derek gives up his intense staring into the clearing ahead (and, seriously, what even) to scowl at him. “That was literally one time.”

“Nope. Once for _you_ , sure, but then there was that time that Erica and Isaac were trapped, which was disastrous by the way, those two should never pair up again for anything, oh my god-“ He stops suddenly when a particularly strong gust of wind hits them, numbing his nose and cheeks and ears, and he has to clamp his mouth shut to stop his teeth from clattering together.

He shoves his hands further into the pockets of his hoodie and curls into himself a little to try to shield himself from the wind. Of course he had to wear one of the flimsiest jackets he has in his rush - or, well, _Derek’s_ rush - to get to the preserve. Why the hell not.

Ready to continue his tirade on why exactly he should be present at all times, Stiles lifts his head only to pause when Derek raises a hand and shushes him, peering at whatever he’d caught sight of ahead. Stiles perks up, peering through the bushes he’s hiding behind and trying to keep his shivering to a minimum.  It’s pointless though, and after a moment or two he turns back to Derek who doesn’t seem to be feeling the cold at all.

Fucking werewolves, Stiles thinks enviously as he eyes Derek’s leather jacket. He makes a decision and slowly, quietly, shuffles to the side, keeps shuffling until he’s pressed up right against the blessedly warm furnace that is Derek’s entire left side.

Derek shifts slightly and looks to him with his eyebrows furrowed in a bemused and silent question.

Stiles shrugs, his eyes widened innocuously. “You have a clearer vantage point,” he explains with a vague wave of his hand at the trees that had been…slightly…covering his view.

Derek scoffs a little but doesn’t call him out on the flimsy excuse or move away so Stiles settles against the warmth, not a little smugly.

**

So, turns out that when you’re freezing your ass off so much that all your extremities go numb, the only better way to ward that off – after leeching off the body heat of an extremely hot (in the _very literal sense_ ) werewolf – is being chased through the forest by pissed off hunters.

Go figure. 

* * *

 

**II.**

Here’s the thing about Beacon Hills: all sorts of supernatural fuckery pops up _all the time_ , right? It happens so often, they might as well have an index and keep records and label them “Monster of the Week” (not that they ever happen with any sort of regularity, of course; _that_ would be creepy).

Here’s the other thing: sometimes, something minor happens (like, for example, hunters showing up for as-of-yet unidentified reasons but not causing any trouble) and then something big follows it (not necessarily related), _and_ _then_ they immediately forget all about that comparatively minor former thing (‘they’ meaning majority of the pack and of course not Stiles, because he actually _pays attention_ when it comes to potential threats to his life and/or the town’s). Which is possibly _the dumbest thing anyone could do_ because everyone knows the element of surprise being on the bad guys’ side is the worst thing ever.

“...and this is why you should all, oh I don’t know, _maybe listen to me_ when I point out that maybe those hunters were in town _for a reason and not just for shits and giggles_. It’s really not that hard of a concept, you know!” Stiles rants at Boyd.

Well, at Boyd’s back, his very unimpressed back to be specific, because let’s be real - dude doesn’t really give a shit about whatever comes out of Stiles’ mouth at any given time. Despite how intelligent it is and how he’s _totally got a point_. Stiles is as unfazed by this silence as always; Boyd’s warming up to him, he can tell. It’s a skill of his.

“You get me, though, right?” Stiles presses, stumbling over a rock when he tries to match Boyd’s swift pace. They’re back at the preserve, of course, because where else would the supernatural be attracted to besides the school in this town. “There’s no way I’m the only one who pays attention to everything around here.”

He almost jumps when Boyd actually contributes then. “Pretty sure if that was true then you wouldn’t be yapping your head off and you’d realise we’re obviously being followed,” he says flatly, sparing Stiles a glance.

Stiles gapes at him. “I do _not_ \- wait.” He flails a hand out, whacking Boyd on the arm, and twists to look behind them as Boyd leads them between a cluster of trees. “What do you mean _we’re being followed_ , why would you not say something _earlier_?” he demands.

As if on cue, a strong burst of wind literally _howls_ through the trees. It almost knocks Stiles off his feet but Boyd hauls him up by his hoodie with a long-suffering eye-roll. Stiles gets his feet under him and manages to shoot him a half-hearted glare. He opens his mouth to snark something to the effect of ‘wow, dude, anyone would think you didn’t wanna be saddled with the awkward human, I am _wounded_ ’ but (probably fortunately) Boyd growls at him quietly to shut up before he can get the words out.

“Derek and the others are ahead, we should go to the rendezvous point before it catches up to us,” Boyd mutters.

Stiles blinks after him as they speed through the forest. “Wait, wait, is the thing chasing us _the thing that we came out here to find and presumably kill_?” He throws his hands up in the air, voice rising in a mix of frustration and disbelief. “You’re a _werewolf_ ,” he reminds Boyd. “You didn’t notice it following us?”

Boyd huffs an irritated breath and shakes his head. Stiles grumbles but follows silently, mindful of the increasingly closer sounds at their backs - the wind not so much howling as whistling now. The fact that they don’t actually know what it is adds an air of mystery that is _so not needed right now_. He’s got an overactive imagination, alright? He doesn’t exactly appreciate the horror images his mind is throwing up with the thing practically snapping at their heels. Although, if anything, it does at least make him run faster.

All of a sudden, Boyd’s spinning around on a sudden stop to push Stiles behind him, and they’re surrounded as growling figures leap from the trees; Stiles has a split second of panic before he actually looks and realises it’s just the pack. This must be the rendezvous point. (He has no idea how any of them recognise it; puts it down to a scent thing, maybe.)

“Did you see it?” Derek snaps at him and Boyd from where he’s crouched in front of them all, shifted, without glancing back.

“No,” Boyd replies, looking a lot less tense now that he and his pack are flanking their Alpha. “It wasn’t following us until about ten minutes ago.”

Stiles frowns. “Can’t you sniff out anything about it?”

In front of him, Erica cocks her head and takes a sniff of the air. She pulls a face. “Just smells like, I don’t know, wind? Heavy, cold, wind.”

“That’s helpful.”

Derek growls a warning back at them and the werewolves all drop to their haunches in defensive stances. Stiles tenses, puts a hand at the pouch of mountain ash in his pocket.

Ahead, there’s the sound of tree branches whipping around and bushes rustling strongly in a strong burst of wind, and the pack all growls in unison, but then it just- stops. The wind abruptly cuts off before it can hit their clearing. The betas’ growling fades in confusion. Stiles takes a wary step back.

And then everything goes to shit.

Stiles isn’t sure _what_ exactly happens, except suddenly it’s like the preserve just gets- ripped up, torn apart, and the wind’s grabbing at him, pulling from every direction until he can’t see what’s in front of him and can’t tell up from down. The howling in his ears is _loud_ and he can’t even lift his hands to cover them because he’s pretty sure he’s flailing in mid-air, eyes screwed shut against the icy wind threatening to freeze them out, and actually, he definitely knows he’s being flown back now because _there’s nothing solid beneath his feet_. With a gasp, his eyes fly open to see what the fuck is happening except that would be the moment he flies hard into a tree.

As he falls to the floor in a crumpled heap, Stiles catches a glimpse of the preserve, which looks like it was torn up by a hurricane. A sharp hit of that ice-cold wind forces his eyes shut and he just has enough consciousness left to shiver at the feeling of quickly-cooling blood trickling down his face, before darkness takes over and he passes out.

**

Stiles wakes up to the sound of arguing.

“What do you mean, you didn’t _notice_? How is this something that you miss?!”

“It wasn’t like a tornado was ripping through the whole forest, alright? It was a sudden attack!”

Scott and Derek, of course. For all the progress they’ve made since the early dodgy days, they still have their moments.

Stiles considers opening his eyes but he kind of can’t be bothered intervening just yet so he lays there, breathing deeply, and catalogues what he can feel. It surprises him that he’s still lying on the forest floor - he’d thought for sure they’d have moved him by now, unless he hadn’t been out for long, which is probably a good thing, actually. He can feel all four limbs, which is always a bonus, but there’s the slight issue of a throbbing headache creeping around his temples and also, yeah, he’s pretty sure his fingers and toes are completely frozen. Not to mention the faint trembling running through his body, which he’s guessing isn’t too good.

He hadn’t realised he’d zoned out the noises of the bickering and the rest of the pack’s mutterings until he hears Scott crouch down beside him. “He’s shivering. Derek, I need your jacket.”

“Why-”

“Because _I’m not wearing one and he needs to be warmed up_ ,” Scott snaps.

Stiles fights the urge to snicker, or to open his eyes and see the no doubt grudging look on Derek’s face. He does, however, let out a small sigh when Scott drapes the heavy warm leather jacket over him, instantly warming his body a little. Maybe his fingers will stop shaking now. Also, he’s getting tempted to move despite the pain in his head because the forest floor is _fucking cold_ and he’s pretty sure his ass is going numb.

“Stiles? You awake?” Scott prods.

Stiles groans an “unfortunately” before braving cracking his eyes open. He sees Scott’s worried face wavering above him and not much else. The pain doesn’t flare up like he had expected, so of course he goes straight from lying down to propped up on an elbow and trying to look around the damaged clearing.

“Stiles!”

Pain bursts at the forefront of his head and his vision whites out - he may have yelled, he’s not sure - and before long, there are hands grabbing his arms to keep him from falling back to the ground. Someone else slides in behind him and slips a warm hand at the nape of his neck. Stiles doesn’t realise why until he feels the sharp edge of his headache easing slowly, like it’s being suctioned back, and he relaxes back into the hand with a sigh of relief, eyes shut.

Of course, when Derek’s voice sounds near his ear, in all its disgruntled glory, he startles epically.

“Why would you try _moving_ right after you cracked your head, you moron.”

Stiles tries to sound pissed off but can’t quite manage it when he feels like he’s being drugged into painless bliss. He does manage a grumbled “You just shut up and keep doing that thing you’re doing.”

Miraculously, Derek does shut up, but only after a snort. Stiles gets the feeling that Scott is shooting him warning daggers with his eyes right now.

The next five minutes are a lesson in balancing while avoiding further pain. Stiles may or may not whine a little when Derek drops his hand so that Scott can help him to his feet but Derek only rolls his eyes and resumes the awesome pain-sucking thing (shut up, he’s woozy from possible concussion, coherency is not a strong point right now) once Stiles is upright, an arm around Scott’s shoulders for support. The rest of the pack leads the way back, picking a path through the destroyed trees.

Stiles doesn’t know how they end up at the road, only that he’s tempted to duct-tape Derek’s hand to his neck because _damn_ this thing is better than morphine, and that he sort of zoned out for most of the trek back, which possibly explains why Scott is trying to get him into the passenger seat of Derek’s Camaro and looking super worried. Stiles blinks up at him lethargically, barely hearing his phone call to his mom about Stiles needing a quick check-up ASAP - he’s too busy wrapping Derek’s jacket around his shoulders more securely because now that Derek is standing by Scott (with a deep scowl, too, dude needs to lighten up, chill a little) he’s starting to feel how numb his fingers are going and the cold’s creeping back into his body.

So. Yeah. Warm jacket is nice right now. Also, it smells like Derek, _a lot_ , which is also a plus.

“If you say so, dude,” Scott says from beside him with a snicker.

Stiles lifts his head (he hadn’t been _actively sniffing_ the collar like a creep, okay? His nose is cold.) and squints at Scott. “What.”

Scott grins at him and pats his shoulder. “You have no filter when you’re concussed. Don’t worry, I’ll make Derek promise to tune you out during the ride back.”

**

Turns out Derek doesn’t need to tune him out at all. Stiles makes grabby hands at him as soon as he’s behind the wheel ( _concussion_ , no judging) and as soon as Derek’s hand is back at his neck and leeching off the pain - after a lot of put-upon sighs, of course - Stiles leans into it happily and, well.

Falls asleep.

(Also not a very good thing.)

**

Melissa has _a lot_ of words to say to Derek and Scott and Stiles once they’re in a secluded room at the hospital.

Stiles happily zones out and focuses on the numbing morphine flowing through his veins.

He doesn’t realise until later that he’d had Derek’s wrist in a death-grip until then.

He also doesn’t realise until he wakes up the next morning, decidedly more clear-headed, that Derek hadn’t taken his jacket back; rather, it lays in a heap beside Stiles on the bed where he’d left it, the lingering scent of Derek on it making Stiles bury his face into his pillow and groan loudly.

Note to self: no more concussions around stupidly hot werewolves who smell stupidly good.

* * *

 

**III.**

Melissa lets Stiles go with strict instructions to “stay at home and _rest_ , Stiles, or I swear I will hint to your dad that you need a deputy parked outside your house to keep an eye on you.”

(She hadn’t been kidding.)

Stiles sighs and complains all the way home until Scott says, “My mom kinda has a point, dude.”

Stiles stares at him in betrayal. “I can’t just _sit at home_ , Scott, not while that thing is still out there.”

Scott shrugs, eyes on the road. “Look, you can’t help us fight it, right? But now we know what it does, so do your thing. See if you can figure out what it is from the bestiary or something. We’re gonna need a way to end it because we can’t exactly fight _wind_ , y’know.”

After a short pause, Stiles sighs and sits back. “You may have a point.”

“‘Course I do.”

“Knew I kept you around for a reason.”

Scott beams over at him and Stiles snorts, reaching over to shove a hand at his face.

**

So Stiles does what he does best. (Arguably, anyway; he maintains that he is pretty fucking kickass with his bat against corporeal creatures.) He pulls up his laptop as soon he hits his bed and gets ready to fall into a few hours on end of research.

Except, it doesn’t really work that way, because no sooner than he clicks open the bestiary does his window slide open and Derek peeks in.

Stiles blinks up at him. “Uh, hey, dude. What’s up?”

Derek slips into his room and pulls up his desk chair to sit on it.

“What are you doing.”

“What’s it look like.”

( _Aw crap,_ Stiles thinks, _the lack of punctuation thing is spreading_.)

Stiles eyes him over the top of his laptop. He looks weirdly comfortable. “It looks like you’re preparing to spend a few hours babysitting me while I do the very strenuous act of researching.”

Derek rolls his eyes and leans forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped between them, quirking his eyebrows. Stiles pointedly _doesn’t_ stare at the way his biceps flex under his henley sleeves. Nor is he tempted to. Nope, not one bit.

“Do you even know what you’re searching _for_?”

Stiles is insulted by the insinuation that he doesn’t know how to do _his thing_. He raises his own eyebrows right back. “Dude, _yeah_ , look for a thing that controls wind and makes mini-hurricanes rip through a forest, how hard can it be?”

The look Derek shoots him speaks volumes. Specifically, ‘ _are you shitting me right now_ ’ with a healthy dose of ‘ _why are we relying on you_ ’. Yeah, Stiles has become pretty fucking fluent in reading Eyebrow-ese. It’s a talent he prides himself on having. _Someone_ in the pack should be able to read Derek when he’s not being cooperatively communicative, right?

“Excuse you,” he says mildly, returning his attention to the screen and pulling up the search engine. “I know what I’m doing so you just… shut up and sit there, also put away the judge-y eyebrows, okay, I can’t focus when I can feel them _judging me_.” He chances a glance back up and, with the scowl on Derek’s face, he almost expects a churlish ‘ _you_ shut up’ to be thrown back at him. It isn’t, but he imagines it anyway, and smirks back to his computer.

A couple of silent minutes later, Derek shifts and clears his throat. “How’s your head?”

Stiles pauses and narrows his eyes, considering, over at Derek. “Come again?”

Derek gives him a flat look. “Your concussion. You were pretty out of it.”

“Derek Hale, is that _concern_ I hear?” Stiles mock-gasps, pressing a hand over his heart. “I’m touched. Really.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be rude to the person who just came out of the hospital. There are these things we have in society, Derek, and they’re called manners.”

“ _You’re_ preaching about manners?” Derek’s eyebrows have reached their peak.

Stiles opens his mouth then considers his point and shuts it with a nod. “Touche, dude. Touche.”

Derek sits back, looking too smug for Stiles’ liking. (Or, you know, too much to Stiles’ liking? Or something. It’s not his fault that smirk looks insultingly good on the dude’s face. Stiles kind of wants to kiss it. Kind of. Only not really because Derek’s still an asshole. Except when he’s not? Like when he pops up randomly to check up on Stiles under blatantly false pretences. But he’s _still an asshole_.)

“...is this how you normally research?”

The super amused question snaps Stiles out of his staring and _whoa shit_ , that was not supposed to happen. He drops his eyes back to the screen quickly, not even seeing the words in front of him because it’s all he can do to focus on forcing the image of Derek’s dumb tantalising - wow he did not just use that word - smirk out of his mind. He can feel his cheeks heating up as he glares at his laptop.

“ _No_ ,” he huffs, “but you’re being _distracting_.”

“ _I’m_ distracting? I’m distracting _you_?” Derek sounds faintly incredulous, which is ridiculous.

“I’d like to see anyone try to focus with all of _that_ sitting in their room,” Stiles mumbles with a wave of his hand in Derek’s general direction, still refusing to look up because he’s certain that he’s still blushing like crazy. “Yes, you’re fucking distracting,” he adds in normal tones (though, he realises, Derek would have clearly heard his previous remark, but he chooses to ignore that fact), “Now shut up and let me do my thing. Research, that is- my thing is _researching_ -” Stiles clears his throat, almost wishing he could just give up talking. “Feel free to tell me anything that could be construed as useful, by the way. Hey, what about Naiads?”

“What- ...they’re not real.”

Stiles makes a disappointed noise. “Come on, seriously?” He clicks through several bookmarked pages, scanning the information for anything relevant to their situation. He’s not really sure why Derek’s still there, to be honest, but it’s not like he can just _ask_. That would be too easy.

But, well, he seems to have jinxed it, whatever it was, when Derek gets to his feet not ten minutes later. Stiles blinks and glances up at him.

“What, don’t tell me you already got bored of the thrilling activity that is watching me research crap?” he teases, cocking an eyebrow.

Derek scoffs, already making his way over to the window. “Your dad’s cruiser just turned into the street,” he says in lieu of giving an answer.

“Dude, you do know my dad doesn’t really give a shit if he sees you hanging out here, right?” Stiles tells him seriously. Derek just leans back against the windowsill and quirks his eyebrows dubiously, and Stiles grins. “You’re still scared of him, aren’t you.”

And, _yep, hello McScowly, you’ve been sorely missed_ , he thinks with a snicker when Derek frowns at the statement in insult.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Derek says.

“Come on, admit it, I won’t laugh. He _is_ the Sheriff, after all, it’s kinda his job to scare people. I sincerely doubt he’ll ever purposefully try to intimidate _you_ , though. He does leave that for the big bads, you know, and not for my friends. Although, now that I think about it, he’d probably pull the ‘I have multiple guns because I’m the Sheriff so don’t you dare hurt my kid’ act under the right circumstances,” Stiles muses, then hastens to add, “Not that _that_ has anything to do with your- our?- _this current circumstance_ here…” He trails off with a pained sigh. Today is clearly not his fucking day, wow, Derek should just maybe not come visit him when he’s just come out of the hospital. This is a _train-wreck_.

Derek looks like he’s biting back a massive shit-eating grin, the fucker. “I’ll take your word for it,” he says - cryptically, Stiles should add, because _take his word for what exactly_?? Just then, Stiles hears the sound of his dad pulling into the driveway and raises his eyebrows at Derek, who smirks and then neatly slides back and backflips out the window.

Stiles snorts, rolling his eyes. “Fucking show-off,” he mutters with way too much fondness than should be acceptable. A startled laugh escapes him when a rock hits his window from outside - Derek no doubt heard him. “You can’t deny it!” Stiles yells towards the window with a laugh.

He doesn’t realise he’s still sporting a huge _extremely_ fond grin, at nothing in particular, until his dad knocks on his open bedroom door a couple of minutes later and quirks his eyebrows at Stiles with a curious smile. “Hey, kiddo. How’re you feeling?”

Stiles tries to tone down the grin. He suspects it doesn’t really work, because Dad just chuckles. “Great, Dad. Pretty freakin’ awesome, actually.”

And, well, he is.

Except, a short while later, when he’s trying to actually get some research done, he stops suddenly and stares up ahead unseeingly at a realisation that has (if he’s being completely honest with himself) been inching towards his conscious mind for some time now.

He is _completely gone on Derek_.

And when he says completely, he means _completely, absolutely 100-fucking-percent_ gone. Like, not even just _physically_ because, let’s be real, that ship sailed long ago.

This requires an emergency call.

Stiles slides his laptop aside and dives for his phone, hitting Scott’s speed-dial and jiggling a foot impatiently as it rings.

Scott picks up _finally_ , with a casual, “Hey, dude, what’s-”

“I’m having a _dilemma_!” Stiles bursts out, then rushes to his door and shuts it. He does the same for the window, too, as an afterthought, even though it’s kind of stupid but it gives him a sense of much-needed privacy.

Scott is instantly on full alert. “On a scale of your dad’s been sneaking iced donuts at the station to kidnapping Jackson, how big’s this dilemma?”

“Okay, first of all, your scale makes no sense because my dad sneaking food he’s been forbidden from having _for the sake of his health_ is definitely higher than that horribly planned-out thing with Jackson. Secondly, that scale is extremely relative and my predicament is life-changing, Scott; _seriously, potentially, life-changing_ ,” Stiles stresses while pacing around his room in tight circles. It quickly dizzies him and he drops into his desk chair, only to remember _Derek_ had been sitting there and almost flying off to perch on the edge of his bed.

“Alright, uh, are you okay, though?”

“ _No,_ I’m not _okay,_ Scott, I just realised I’m kind of _really into Derek_.” Stiles throws his free arm out violently, like the explosion is a tangible one.

There’s a long pause on Scott’s end, enough for Stiles to think maybe he should have eased into the subject, but _fuck that_ he’s just coming to terms with the fact himself.

“You… have a crush on Derek,” Scott says slowly.

Stiles nods; is about to add an emphatic _yes_ because Scott can’t see him when his friend adds, sounding really incredulous:

“Which you _just realised_?”

Wait.

No, this is not how this conversation is supposed to go.

Stiles pulls his phone away to stare at it disbelievingly before returning it to his ear with a cautious, “What? No. _What_?”

“What ‘what’?” Scott sounds confused, which is doing nothing but adding to Stiles’ own bewilderment.

“What do you mean I just- No, you know what, why are you not freaking out, _I_ am freaking out!”

...Okay, that may not be _entirely_ true but dammit _it should be_. Shouldn’t it?

“But… you two are _always flirting_ ,” Scott replies, like it's a logical addition to make.

Stiles does his best gaping-fish impression, even flails his free arm around trying to articulate how completely befuddled he feels. “Dude- what, _no_ , what are you _on about_.”

There’s a brief silence on the other line before Scott says, cautious, “Maybe you should think about this?”

Stiles settles and presses his lips together, eyebrows drawn down in a pensive frown. He drums his fingers against his knee. “Uh. Okay?”

“Did you find out anything about what we might be up against, by the way?”

Bless Scott and his inability to be subtle about subject changes. Stiles pounces on it gratefully, even though he’s got nothing to contribute.

“Nah, not yet. I’ll do an intensive search and let you know as soon as I find anything.”

“Okay. I’ll come around in the morning if nothing comes up.”

“Right. Later, Scott.”

He hangs up and drops his phone onto the bed beside him, getting to his feet with a weary stretch. He may be somewhat overestimating his ability to stay focused throughout the night but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try to find _something_. With that resolve in mind, Stiles pulls his laptop to the desk and plonks down in front of it, fingers poised at the keyboard.

He shoots a final cursory glance around the room to note the darkness outside his window when his eyes fall on something sleek and black at the foot of his bed, where the belongings he’d retrieved from the hospital before he’d left lay.

Stiles blinks at it.

Derek’s jacket.

A long moment of staring ensues; surely Derek saw it or sniffed it or whatever when he was here, right? So why is it _still here_?

The jacket seems to be mocking him with a reminder of unwanted realisations. (Which, he realises, is stupid; it’s a _jacket_.) Stiles huffs and spins back to face his laptop somewhat aggressively, ignoring the memory of Derek-smelling warmth warding off a numbing cold.

**

He succeeds, for the most part, until he gets too tired to try to decipher the meaning of words that may or may not be Latin on his screen. Then he just goes to collapse on his bed, mindful of not kicking off the clothes and stuff at one end. One hand tracks an unsteady path along the familiar leather near him, now cool with the temperature of the room, and he resists the sleepy urge to burrow his nose in it and fall asleep to the (scarily comforting) scent of it.

He lets his fingers slip off it and clutches at his covers instead, pulling them up to burrow under them, and dreams of being pressed against a hard, warm body, fingers trailing warmth down his back.

 


	2. watch me from above (like a vicious dove)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He backs up a step, tries to blink the black spots out of his vision; Scott approaches and calls out his name. Stiles shakes his head slowly, can feel numb pins-and-needles creeping up his fingers, hands, feet, like his energy’s slowly falling away from him, and- “Oh.” _Energy._ Right. “Hold that thought…”
> 
> “Not looking so hot there,” Erica comments from the side.
> 
> “Stiles?” Derek grabs his arm cautiously.
> 
> Stiles squints up at him… and then promptly collapses.
> 
> Right into Derek’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: hella fluff and kisses ahead.
> 
> (Also, seriously, I wasn't kidding about the Leather Jacket being a prominent figure in this fic. It's got its own role and everything. New fav character and all that.)

**IV.**

Because they can’t seem to go too long without their luck fizzing out, three days later brings news of the lake flooding over and suspiciously strong winds dropping many trees on houses around the edges of the preserve.

They’re running out of time and still don’t know what the fuck this thing is, because no one’s actually caught a glimpse of it, so they’re going off of the attacks and nothing else. Which is, seriously, not helpful _at all_. So when Stiles gets a message one evening from Derek with curt instructions to find out what he can about setting up water-repelling boundaries around a large lake, the first thing Stiles does is call him.

Derek answers with an impatient, “What?”

“Why am I searching up how to repel water?” Stiles demands, getting right into it. “Is that even possible? Why are you messaging this to me _now_ , do you know what it is?”

“Stiles! Just- Can you do this one thing without questioning everything?”

He sounds vaguely stressed. Stiles frowns. “Sure, okay, don’t strain yourself with the ‘please’ and ‘thank you’s. Am I looking for general information here or what?” He pulls up some useful notes he’d been able to find about creatures who had the ability to manipulate the elements.

Derek sighs a rush of static down the line. “Yeah. Something that can barricade a body of water, at least. Just text me what you find. And _quickly_.”

“Bossy,” Stiles mutters, flipping intently through his notes before a thought strikes him and he pauses, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “Dude, are you- are you going after it _right now_?”

“ _No_ ,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t believe him, but he scowls and jots down some stuff that catches his eye real quick.

“I think I might have something, I’ll call you back.”

Stiles moves to hang up but pauses when Derek calls his name, then adds a quiet “ _thanks_ ” before cutting the line, leaving Stiles staring at his phone in confusion for a few moments. He shakes off the weirdness - okay, it’s not like he _never_ gets thanked, it’s just more surprising coming from Derek all of a sudden, is all. Also, the general weirdness of it has nothing to do with the dumb warmth that flares up in his stomach at the rare expression of gratitude, because that’s just… dumb. Whatever.

(“Fucking Derek Hale and his dumbass unexpected bursts of nice-ness…” he breathes out somewhat aggressively before shoving the matter out of his mind.)

**

It doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes to figure out that he’d had the answer right in front of him and that the process involves a barrier of a mixture infused with mountain ash, because why the fuck not. Meaning, of course, that he has to _go there and do it_ because this is obviously not a thing that werewolves are equipped for.

Stiles quickly rummages through his drawers, pulling out the necessary ingredients and mixing them together with a strong burst of belief, before digging into his pocket for his phone and dialing Derek. The phone rings and rings until it hits a generic voicemail and Stiles curses. He tries Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, but gets the same result.

Scott, for once, is the only one to pick up. Before he can say anything, Stiles says in a rush, “Scott! Listen, I think Derek’s figured out what’s been attacking us, he told me to find a way to barricade water from the lake, but now he’s not answering his phone. I’m pretty sure he and his betas are down there fighting it like the idiots they are, and I’ve got a way to block any more flooding but it involves mountain ash so I’m gonna have to go to the lake and do it myself.”

Scott’s quick to respond. “Got it. I’ll meet you there.”

Grabbing his car keys - and, on second thought, Derek’s jacket - Stiles rushes down the stairs and out the front door to his Jeep.

He manages not to get caught breaking any speed limits on the way, but it’s a close thing.

**

Parking a short ways up from the lake at the edge of the preserve, Stiles sprints around the trees until he hears the sounds of an on-going battle. He edges around it, not wanting to get caught up in the middle of a whirlwind again, until he can see the lake just ahead. Its generally calm surface is fraught with heavy waves, the likes of which are unseen outside of oceans, though there’s nothing natural about these. Like the crazy wind from the other day, the currents aren’t pulling the water in any one direction - rather, it’s as if it’s at war with itself, waves crashing against each other as much as the shore. On the opposite bank, Stiles can see that a few trees have been uprooted, likely by a combination of strong winds and the water smashing against them, blocking the path that way. He grimaces; that will make his job of circling the lake with a barrier a bit harder, and longer too if he has to swerve around the fallen trees.

Stiles has yet to see the creature itself but he can hear the results of its fight with the pack - their snarls and growls sometimes being drowned out by the cadence of the howling wind and the roar of the waves heading closer to them. He inches closer despite common sense yelling at him to TURN THE FUCK AROUND, DUMBASS, but well, curiosity killed the cat and all.

(...On second thought, that may not be the best way to put it. He doesn’t want to _die_ because of his curiosity, okay. That would majorly suck.)

Stumbling down an unseen path between the trees towards the sounds of the fighting makes him realise there’s no reason to try to be quiet about his approach - he doubts even the werewolves could sniff him out or hear him in this chaos. As he latches onto the thick trunk of a tree at the top of a down-hill slope, Stiles peers around it where this part of the preserve leads down to the bank and, further, the lake. Sure enough, he spots five blurs of movement amidst the frenzy of tree branches whipping this way and that, leaves and bushes and sticks flying around like mobile projectile weapons, the lake water spraying over them all as waves crash one after the other on land. The attacks seem to be heavily centered on the werewolves who are, Stiles is pleased to note, actually holding their ground pretty well, considering.

Holding their ground against- Stiles stops and squints like he can mentally zoom in on the scene and all the rapid movement. He’s not certain, but it definitely looks like they’re all aiming at a _thing_ that’s moving with the wind, _whoosh_ ing between them all and generally causing massive confusion. But- a glance at the lake befuddles him even more, when he thinks he sees a blur of motion riding one of the waves before diving under the surface of the water. It’s - he doesn’t know what it is, what _any_ of it is, but he’s seen enough - as far as he can tell, Derek and his betas are handling themselves well enough for now. He should get started on the barrier.

Stiles digs into his pocket for the small pouch of the powdered ingredients and starts pouring it out in a thin trail as he moves quickly, but steadily, around the trees. Firm, solid, belief, he repeats to himself. _Barricade the lake, keep the attacks away, make the wind stop_ , all swirl through his mind, sticking to the powder that seems to glint as it falls in a constant path behind him.

The sounds of the battle seem to drop away, fading into a faint buzz as all his energy focuses on the barrier.

He doesn’t realise he’s circled about three-quarters of the lake until he reaches the upturned trees that had fallen onto the route. Stiles curses but does his best to maintain his concentration and belief, keeping the trail going as he carefully scrambles around the thicker parts of the trees and back on track. He glances back; the line is as solid as ever; he breathes a sigh of relief.

Time always seems to slow down for him when he’s handling his ‘spark’ abilities; everything fades into the background and nothing seems as vital as _getting it right_ , nothing catches his attention hard enough to make him waver. It’s not until he reaches the start and lets go the last handful of the seemingly-endless mixture does the world come back to life.

Stiles jerks back when, all of a sudden, a bright silvery shine ignites around the lake - the barrier setting in place - and a shriek _pierces_ the air. Goosebumps erupt across his skin as his hair stands on end, hands rising to his ears even as the scream fades like it was nothing. Stiles sways on the spot, blinking in bewilderment as the scene before him seems to mute. He backs away, even though the weather’s calmed down considerably, and hangs onto a tree trunk with shaky hands.

Someone calls his name and his head snaps up, looking around to see Scott scrambling up to him. He must have gotten here while Stiles was laying down the barrier. He watches as Scott gets closer and has a moment of panic because what if it stops the pack from crossing it as well and he’d just inadvertently trapped them in there? But- no, Scott crosses over to him without a problem, and Stiles calms down as he reaches up a hand to clasp his friend’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

Scott nods. “Yeah. Derek and the others are coming up.” He indicates to the right and Stiles peers over to see them heading his way, looking like they’d just gotten out of a fight with… well… a hurricane.

Stiles steps away from the tree and crosses his arms as they reach him and Scott, ready to let loose the tirade that’s been building up in his head since Derek’s phone call. Judging by the look on Derek’s face when they lock eyes, he’s expecting it, but before Stiles can say a word, the lake _erupts_. They all fall back instinctively, even as the water hits the barrier line and rebounds off of a not-quite-corporeal wall before it can hit them.

But that’s not all. Their eyes are drawn to the center of the lake as the water returns to it swiftly, to the figure rising up above the swirling mass of the waves, now focused all at the center. Stiles gapes.

It’s a woman, or what looks like one. In the dimming evening light, she seems to glow faintly, her bare skin shimmering; she holds herself rigid like a formidable statue, standing on a pillar of what would, in other circumstances, be a mini-tornado; but what hits him is her face. Even from a distance, he can tell that she would otherwise be a creature of pure ethereal beauty, of near-perfection, but now her full red lips are parted in a snarl showing terrifyingly sharp teeth and her eyes - large and pale and as blue as the lake would be on a clear day - seem to pierce through him, fierce, blazing, irrefutably _enraged_.

As if that’s not enough, a strong rush of wind picks up again - thankfully, only within the large circle, no hint of it outside - and a mini tornado seems to form out of the dislodged plants and torn-up trees, spinning faster and faster until it rises beside the lake, nothing more than a blur of motion so fast it makes Stiles faintly sick with vertigo just looking at it. And, rising from its center, is another creature, as ethereally beautiful as the first, but where the terror of the former came from how she seemed to resemble the ocean amidst a storm, the latter frightens Stiles in how much more _alive_ she seems, almost feverish in her dark-eyed glare.

The water-lady (and Stiles has a sinking feeling he knows what they are) raises her hands to her sides as if she’s spreading wings, and the water around her rises, keeps rising, until she throws her head back and lets loose another scream that _shatters_ whatever hold she’d had on them all. The water surges forward, the wind picks up again around her with an eerie howl from the second creature, and the lake explodes.

“Run!” Scott yells.

They make a dash for it, Stiles stumbling before Scott’s hand at his elbow steadies him. He knows he’s put enough power into the barrier that it should hold for now but that doesn’t mean any of them particularly want to stick around and wait for the creatures to realise that.

The don’t stop until they’ve hit the road, clear of the preserve and far, far away from the lake.

**

His life is a _joke_. A great, big, gigantic cosmic joke. That’s the only explanation.

“It’s not a Naiad, you said. Naiads don’t _exist_ , you said. Well, I hate to break it to ya, buddy, but that thing back there looked like _a fucking Naiad to me_ , so would you care to explain that one? Huh, Derek?”

Derek blows out a breath, looking like he’s counting to ten in his head. Stiles refuses to back down. He is _indignant_ , dammit, and he has every right to be. “It’s not a Naiad _exactly_ ; Naiads are specific to water. They’re nymphs. Water and air.”

Stiles throws his hands up. “Wow, whoop-de-fucking-do, _what a difference._ In what world,” Stiles hisses affrontedly, “ _are_ _nymphs even real_?!”

Beside him, Isaac shrugs. “In what world are werewolves real?”

Stiles envies how casual they’re all being about this. Is he the only one who is slightly concerned about how they never ever get a break? And also how _mythical creatures are slowly ceasing to be mythical_?

“Why couldn’t we all just be Airbenders or something,” he grumbles, leaning back against his Jeep wearily. “Catch all the big bads by surprise.”

“Why couldn’t life be easy, you mean?” Derek retorts drily.

Stiles shoots him a disgruntled look. “ _Yes_ , exactly, thank you for getting my point. Which reminds me. What the _fuck_ were you _doing_ out here, exactly?”

Derek narrows his eyes and turns to him, crossing his arms impressively over his chest. “Going for a walk, what did it look like.”

Stiles scowls and pushes off the car, striding forward somewhat unsteadily to get into Derek’s space and refusing to be cowed by his unimpressed stare. “You jackass, what happened to collaborating plans, huh? And calling for _backup_? You don’t go attacking something without _knowing stuff about it_ , Derek!”

“We were just scoping out the lake! I didn’t have plans to attack anything, they got us first. And my betas _were_ my backup.”

“Yeah, until you had to message me. Now, let’s think about how much easier this would all have been if you’d told Scott and me about it all before you came here. Thought about it? Yeah? I sure fucking hope so because you better _do that next time_. Or have you forgotten about the thing we agreed to where we’re all in this together, which means _working_ together and not _doing things without telling each other_?”

Stiles breathes hard and, when he realises that Derek’s increasingly-concerned face is spinning in front of him, has a moment of confusion because, okay, he’s pissed off but not _that_ pissed off?

He backs up a step, tries to blink the black spots out of his vision; Scott approaches and calls out his name. Stiles shakes his head slowly, can feel numb pins-and-needles creeping up his fingers, hands, feet, like his energy’s slowly falling away from him, and- “Oh.” _Energy_. Right. “Hold that thought…”

“Not looking so hot there,” Erica comments from the side.

“Stiles?” Derek grabs his arm cautiously.

Stiles squints up at him… and then promptly collapses.

Right into Derek’s arms.

**

This time, when Stiles comes to, he’s in the back of his Jeep with Derek’s jacket draped over him (he knew it would be a good idea to bring it along).

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he sighs at it with a gentle pat, not quite completely coherent yet.

A snort from the front makes Stiles look up. Why is Derek in the passenger seat? He meets Scott’s amused eyes in the rearview mirror with a vague frown.

“You actually awake?” Scott asks him.

Stiles blinks and pinches his arm. It hurts. “Yep. Definitely awake.” He waits for Scott to address the issue of Derek being there but he doesn’t. Stiles narrows his eyes at the back of his head. “Scott. Why is Derek here?”

“Because you passed out into his arms and freaked him out, dude,” Scott replies with a snicker.

Derek lifts a hand and hits him upside the head. Stiles appreciates it because he sure as hell can’t get up right now to do just that.

“No one passed out,” Stiles huffs. “It was a severe depletion of energy, okay, perfectly normal considering I _did_ just save all your asses from being drowned or ripped apart or whatever by the freaky nymph ladies.” He stops and has to take a few deep breaths because he’s still feeling off, and everything feels a lot harder to do than it should be.

“How’re you feeling?” Scott asks.

Stiles groans and slips his eyes shut. “Like I’ve been sapped of all energy. I’m withering away, Scotty, I can feel it.” He twitches his fingers with a mournful look upon opening his eyes.

“You’re not withering away,” Derek deadpans, peering back at him.

Stiles blinks and narrows his eyes at him, pointing a finger accusingly. “You, no, I’m still mad at you, you’re not off the hook yet. We’re continuing that argument as soon as I can sit up without-”

“Fainting?” Scott supplies helpfully.

“Thanks, Scott,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his tone. Scott shoots him a wide grin.

Derek huffs and returns his gaze to the road. “There’s nothing to argue about,” he, well, he argues.

Stiles purses his lips, shooting him the most deadpan look ever, even if he can’t see it. “There is a _lot_ to argue about. I have a list. Don’t make me start now or it’ll be your fault if I black out again.”

Derek rolls his eyes heavenward, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Stiles scowls at him; no one _forced_ him to come.

(He’s not sulking. He’s _not_.)

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Scott jokes, probably trying to diffuse the tension.

Both Derek and Stiles turn to him with unimpressed stares. He widens his eyes and shrugs in an _okay, I’m backing off_ way, but not before mumbling something under his breath about sleeping on a couch that Stiles’ sadly human ears don’t quite catch but which makes Derek glower at him from the passenger seat.

The rest of the ride is weirdly silent. In his attempt to ignore it, Stiles falls asleep.

He blames the jacket; it’s stupidly comfortable.

**

“Stiles. Stiles, wake up.”

“Mmhhm ten m’re min’s…”

“Don’t make me carry you.”

“...’s nice, Der’k…”

“ _Stiles_.”

The pointed call of his name jerks Stiles awake. He groans and blinks, then blinks again until he realises the room looks weird because it’s _not_ a room but is, in fact, the inside of his Jeep. He lets out a soft curse on a sigh when he feels an ache pulse at his temples. Lifting a hand to rub at his head makes the- blanket? Right, no, jacket, Derek’s jacket - slip until he grabs at it.

“Stiles. We’re at your house.”

_Oh, right_. Stiles tilts his head back, looking upwards to find the passenger seat pushed forward, the door open and Derek looking down at him. It’s too dark to make out his expression but Stiles can easily imagine the disgruntled impatience that must be there. He sighs again and rises up on an elbow, taking his time to sit up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.”

Derek steps back and watches him silently as he slips out of the car, clutching the jacket tightly for a moment before shrugging and slipping it on because the night’s pretty fucking cold. He moves with caution, wary of the throbbing in his head that’s threatening to explode if he doesn’t do something about the deep ache encompassing his body, which he knows won’t leave until he eats some food and sleeps for a solid few hours.

Sometimes, having somewhat magical abilities sucks.

Someone nudges his shoulder lightly and snaps him out of a tired daze he hadn’t even realised he’d fallen into. Stiles shakes his head and glances sideways at Derek, opens his mouth to mutter a thanks but then snaps it shut again when he remembers that he’s still angry at him. Derek looks like _he_ wants to say something but doesn’t, much to Stiles’ relief, instead just nodding towards the front door which hangs open. He hovers right behind Stiles as he stumbles up towards it but doesn’t try to help him walk, which Stiles also appreciates.

Damn Derek and his ability to understand what Stiles wants when he himself is barely awake enough to know.

As soon as he steps inside, someone else comes up beside him, and he looks up to meet Scott’s eyes, wide with concern.

“Come on, dude, your dad’s inside.”

Stiles blinks. His dad. Ah, shit. He has no doubt that his phone is full of missed calls right now, considering his dad had been at work when Stiles had left and so didn’t know where he’d gone. Now that the Sheriff is in on the supernatural workings of the town, he gets ten times more worried when Stiles isn’t home when he should be.

Stiles hunches his shoulders a bit, feeling the ugly swoop of guilt turning his stomach. Scott’s hand falls on his shoulder, squeezing tightly before falling away.

“I told him what happened,” Scott adds just as the Sheriff strides out into the hallway and takes Stiles in with a tight, worried look.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles greets with a short wave.

He comes closer and claps him gently on the shoulder, peers at his face carefully. “Son. You feeling okay?”

Stiles shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing some food and rest won’t fix. I’m fine, seriously.”

“Right.” His dad looks up and nods at the others, hovering somewhat awkwardly by the door. “Scott, Derek. Thank you for bringing him up. Go get some rest, boys, you look beat.”

They mutter acquiescences, Scott promises to check in on Stiles in the morning, before leaving.

Barely keeping himself from swaying on the spot, Stiles forces his feet to drag through to the living room until he stands at the foot of the stairs, eyeing them in resignation. Righteous anger be damned, it might have been nice to have taken Derek up on his offer of just carrying him to his room.

Dad pats him on the back. “Maybe next time, huh?”

Stiles turns and blinks at him. “I have no filter right now, Dad, ignore whatever comes out of my mouth.”

He gets an amused raised eyebrow in response. “Sure, son. Now, what do you say we try to conquer these stairs?”

“...I don’t know. The couch looks pretty inviting.”

**

Sadly, his dad shoots down his sleeping-on-the-couch idea. Somehow, Stiles manages to dredge up the energy to climb the stairs, which have never before seemed so long, and collapse on his bed while his dad rummages in the fridge downstairs to bring him the best sandwiches in the universe.

Stiles beams at him from the bed when he appears at his doorway with two handfuls of plates of food.

“You’re the best, I ever tell you that?” Stiles says happily, sitting up.

His dad smirks and sets the plates down on top of his bedside drawers. “Couldn’t hurt to hear it more.” His gaze lingers on Stiles for a moment, growing increasingly amused. “Nice jacket, by the way. New fashion statement?”

Stiles drops his head and stares at the leather that is definitely not his. He has a vague memory of putting it on outside the car and groans, picking at it. “Stupid thing keeps popping up everywhere,” he grumbles.

His dad snorts, then moves away after ruffling his hair fondly. “Well, I’m going to bed. You need anything?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good, thanks. ‘Night, Dad. Love you,” he says absently as he pulls the nearest sandwich towards him.

“Love you too, kiddo.”

* * *

**V.**

Stiles eventually gives in and calls up Lydia for help on their nymph problem, when another day passes with more floodings and strong winds threatening to fell trees along the roads, and he hasn’t heard of any new plans regarding it from Derek.

Lydia and Allison had decided to use winter break to head out of BH and look at colleges. Stiles envies them a bit; anything resembling a road trip seems like heaven right now.

“This better be good, Stiles,” Lydia answers on a sigh.

He grins. “Lydia! My fair maiden, queen of my heart-”

“Mhm, get to the favour that you need me to do.”

“Okay, okay. So, we have a, uh, slight nymph problem?”

“A nymph. Really.”

“Hey, what can I say. It’s Beacon Hills. And it’s actually two - a water nymph and an air nymph - if that’s what it’s even called, I don’t even know anymore. Anyway, I can’t find anything useful on, I dunno, getting rid of them? Killing them? Where the fuck did they even come from? If there’s anything about it in the bestiary, it’s in a part that hasn’t been translated yet. All I got was a way to keep them from controlling the elements outside an enclosed space but… yeah, that barrier didn’t hold for long, sadly.”

“Of course not.” Lydia hums, and Stiles hears her talking faintly to someone else - Allison, he assumes - before she continues. “You’re lucky we just settled into a hotel for the night. Give me an hour, two tops.”

“You are a lifesaver,” he says fervently, silently pumping the air with his fist.

Lydia huffs through the line (in a totally fond manner, of course). “Honestly, I can’t leave you all alone for a _week_ …”

Stiles grins. “You know we’re lost without you.”

“Evidently.”

**

Lydia pulls through with the information, as promised. Stiles gets the email notification on his phone while he’s pulling up at Scott’s house, accompanied by a message that reads, _‘Try not to die within the next week.’_

Stiles smirks and texts back, _‘i’ll make an effort not to, just for you’._

He anticipates the unimpressed-looking emoji before it pops up; is still snickering when Scott opens the door and meets him outside.

“Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Lydia’s found us a solution.”

Scott grins. “Awesome! Derek wants to meet up near his old house, anyway, so we can tell-”

“Wait, who, what?” Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up.

“Derek? Sent a message? He… didn’t send you one?” Scott says hesitantly.

Stiles’ mouth drops as he flushes with indignation (or, something more, which he’s not examining right now). He huffs and spins around, heading back to his Jeep and letting Scott catch up. “No. He didn’t send me any messages.”

“Oh…”

“Let’s just go.” Stiles wrenches his door open and falls into the seat with an angry grunt.

**

Sure enough, Derek and his merry band of leather-wearing misfits are waiting at the edge of the preserve by the Hale house ruins. The betas break away from what looks to be a mock-fight, as impeccably unruffled as always (Stiles is a little jealous), to stand by Derek.

The alpha is, unsurprisingly, not too happy to see Stiles stumbling out of the car with Scott. Stiles just straightens up and meets his glare head-on, refusing to acknowledge the churning feeling in his stomach or the heat high on his cheeks. If Derek thinks leaving him out of things is a good idea then fuck him.

“Why are you even-” Derek starts to say, before cutting himself off, looking frustrated.

Stiles scowls deeper and crosses his arms tight against his chest, his very stance one of stubborn defensiveness. “Look, if you think you have a chance of getting rid of these things without me, then you got another thing coming, okay?”

Derek shifts his glare over to Scott, who just raises his hands and shakes his head quickly. “Oh, no, I’m staying out of this.” He drops his hands when Derek continues looking irritated at him and adds seriously, “Dude, Stiles can make his own decisions. It _was_ pretty shitty of you not to message him.”

“Thanks, Scott,” says Stiles, not looking away from Derek.

“For fuck’s sake,” Erica cuts in, looking severely unimpressed by them both. “You two can kiss and make up later, how about that? We kind of have some nymphs to kill right now!”

Beside her, Isaac snorts and mutters an agreement.

It’s a little bit sad when the heat of both Stiles and Derek’s glares does absolutely nothing to faze them.

**

Stiles watches the pack, minus Derek, disappear into the forest to scope out the area around the lake, before turning to stare almost incredulously at Derek.

“A diversion,” he repeats, raking a hand through his hair and tugging lightly at it while he thinks.

“Yes, _a diversion_ ,” Derek says, still looking aggravated about whatever spiky animal crawled up his ass and died. “If they’re focused on attacking a direct threat, they won’t notice anyone sneaking up on them.”

“Mhm.” Stiles cocks his head and looks at him expectantly. “And… you were planning on doing… what, exactly, when you snuck up behind a pair of element-controlling nymphs?”

Derek scowled. “Killing them?”

“Right. Because, y’know, that worked out so well last time. You wanna fight water and wind with fangs and claws.” Stiles scoffs and shakes his head. “Anyone ever tell you how monumentally bad your plans are in terms of strategy?”

“What do you suggest then?” Derek snaps. Stiles blinks when, after a moment of silence, he raises his eyebrows in a wordless ‘ _well?_ ’

“Oh. You’re serious. Okay.” Stiles walks back to his Jeep and reaches in to pull out a small bag of supplies (mostly with cool magical properties, thank you Lydia) and his new bat, made of a mixture of substances that have proven to be - if not lethal - highly unpleasant to a number of supernatural things. Derek wrinkles his nose adorably ( _what_ ) at it but his scowl eases, like he’s actually curious about what Stiles has to offer.

It’s nice.

“Your diversion idea’s a good one,” he begins while making sure the bag has everything he needs for the banishment spell Lydia sent him, glancing up fast enough to catch the vaguely pleased look Derek’s too slow to lock down. Stiles ducks his head with a reluctant smile, securing the bag shut and strapping it over his shoulder. “But instead of killing them- which is not the solution to everything, Derek, seriously-”

“Says you.”

Stiles ignores him and continues, not a little smugly, “I have a banishment spell.”

“A banishment spell,” Derek says; his tone is flat but Stiles can read the intrigued eyebrow raise fine enough. He nods, then smirks just a bit.

“Now who’s parroting who? Yes, Derek, a banishment spell. Basically, I mix some magic things together, say some magic words, and then throw the super magic-ified powder in their faces and _poof_!” He makes a small bursting motion with his hands. “Nymphs gone.”

“...I know what it does, thank you, Stiles.”

“Well, great, we’re all on the same page, let’s go then.” Stiles turns and starts heading off in the same direction the rest of the pack had headed. He doesn’t look back, just smirks wider when he hears the muffled curse after a few steps of silence before Derek catches up to him easily, their shoulders brushing together as they traipse through the trees.

**

This is Beacon Hills, so of course their plan doesn’t go exactly how they had wanted it to.

That’s not to say it doesn’t work _at all_ , it kind of does. Stiles runs across the treeline and sets a barrier of ash against the air-controlling nymph as the werewolves lure her out after them. With her attention solely on them, Stiles fixes up the things from his bag and mutters the Latin he’d memorised from Lydia’s message, then throws the bowl of the shimmering stuff in her direction; focuses all his belief that it’ll land on her and collapses back in relief when the wind she’d been controlling gets sucked back to her, whirling around her rapidly as she screams and _screams_ before it all just- stops, suddenly. Vanishes; leaving the space she’d been hovering over littered with torn up grass and leaves slowly falling back to the ground.

And then, before any of them can recover and brace themselves, their eardrums all get pierced by the water nymph who had - in all the excitement of the last few minutes - been building up some sort of tsunami wave and is now sitting atop it, looking absolutely livid.

Stiles’ heart stops in a moment of terror and the werewolves all jump forward, growling and roaring menacingly. (Because apparently they still think they can _scare_ water away.)

He jumps when Derek drops a hand roughly at his shoulder and shoves him to the side, yelling around his fangs, “Come on! You have to set up the spell near the lake!”

Right. He scrambles to his feet and sprints down the slight slope to the lake edge. A blast of water narrowly misses and he hears Derek swear behind him before pushing him to the ground, almost rolling on top of him, as another wave goes over their heads and leaves them soaked but not drowned.

Stiles huffs, irritated, and glances back once to see the others darting around to the opposite direction of Stiles and Derek so the nymph’s attention is diverted to them instead. He nudges Derek off him sharply with his elbow and gets his feet under him with some trouble from the wet ground. Derek wraps a hand around his arm and helps him upright; Stiles doesn’t bother trying to shake him off as they try to get closer.

He glares over at Derek as they duck behind a tree to avoid getting shot full of water again. “If we end up knocked into the lake, I’m not hauling your heavy ass to safety again!” he yells.

Derek bares his teeth in response.

**

…Of course, Derek ends up getting hit on the head then thrown into the lake. And Stiles has to dive in after him because the betas are now forcing the nymph back away from her power source.

He has to fight a gasp as he hits the water - it’s fucking _cold_ which, okay, it’s January but _still_. He can’t wait to get rid of these nymphs so that the weather can go back to the relatively cold but not freezing Californian winter.

It’s a struggle paddling to keep his head above water so he can actually see what’s happening in the raucous waves; definitely more of a challenge than the feat with the pool. That had been _child’s play_ compared to this. He has no fucking idea how he’s going to drag Derek out but fuck it if he’s not going to try; of course he is. This is their thing, after all, isn't it?

Luckily, it doesn’t take long to spot the prone, semi-floating body a few feet away but swimming over to him against the tide (which, by the way, is really uncanny, considering they’re in a _lake_ in the middle of the preserve and not the motherfucking ocean) proves to be a struggle. He has several moment of panic when a particularly large wave crashes down on Derek’s prone form and dunks him under for what seems like a few long, slow seconds until Stiles reaches the spot he’d last spotted the alpha and takes a deep breath to dive underwater. He reaches out towards the dark blob he can just barely see and curls his hands tightly around it as soon as hits the firm muscle of a broad shoulder.

Kicking up until they both break the surface of the water, Stiles drags in deep gasps of air, latching onto Derek, arms wrapped around his torso as he looks around frantically. The water seems to have calmed down slightly around them but when he peers ahead he can see it’s because the nymph is summoning it over to her, where the pack has formed a growling barricade between her and her lake.

A barricade which will be knocked down as soon as she hits them with all the water she can get.

Stiles clenches his chattering teeth and starts to kick forward, thankful for the direction that the water’s being pulled in as it helps him to shore a lot faster. He thinks he’s starting to lose feeling in his toes; his fingers are _definitely_ numb but he’s not really encouraged to look and check how blue they are.

“If I catch pneumonia, this is all your fault,” Stiles mutters at Derek’s prone _heavy_ form through a bone-wracking shudder. The asshole doesn’t reply, just groans faintly when Stiles dumps him on the grass and scurries over to the bag he’d dropped before. His bat lays next to it, yet unused.

Stiles glances at it, then at the nymph who’s just directed her waves at the werewolves, scattering them, and smirks. He kneels up, dredges up some energy as he hefts the bat in his right hand, aims, and then throws it at her with all the force he can muster.

It hits her square in the face.

Stiles doesn’t have time to cackle at her stunned expression (he files it away for later, though, never one to miss an opportunity) and just stands, unsteadily, with the bowl of the remaining ashes for the spell.

This time, they all have the foresight to clamp their hands around their ears when she shrieks as she’s banished somewhere - preferably, far _far_ away, or in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle or something.

Stiles drops back to his knees, panting, and then curls into a ball; answers Scott’s tired question of “You alright, bro?” with a weary groan.

He swears this is the last time he wilfully drags Derek’s heavy werewolf ass to safety.

(Of course not, but it makes him feel slightly better to think of never going through that kind of fiasco again.)

**

He doesn’t catch pneumonia, only because he is totally due for a bit of good luck at some point down the track. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get enough good luck to avoid getting sick _entirely_.

Of course, nothing happens to Stiles that he doesn’t use to his advantage somehow. In this case, he is way too miserable to move anywhere, especially for dumb werewolves who can’t ever get anything _right for once_ , so when his quiet wrapped-in-blanketburrito-with-a-movie time gets interrupted by a sharp rapping at his window, Stiles only turns the volume of his laptop up and spares a glare for – surprise, surprise – Derek. Who is still the only werewolf who refuses to use doors like a civilised person. (One may argue that maybe it’s a good idea to avoid any neighbours catching Stiles letting a suspected, though exonerated, criminal into his house – but common sense has no place at Beacon Hills, so nope.)

Unfortunately, his plan to ignore Derek until he goes away doesn’t work because _hey_ , he’s apparently stupid enough to ignore Stiles’ obvious ignoring of _him_! _Come on_.

Stiles huffs an irritated breath and pauses his movie before turning to face the werewolf sliding into his room casually like it’s a _thing_ that he _does_.

...Okay, so it _is_ , but that doesn’t mean he has to be all _nonchalant_ about it, alright? All slipping in smoothly and leaning against the windowsill with his arms crossed like it doesn’t _do things_ to Stiles, and- _no,_ fuck that, he’s not being distracted out of his anger.

“Dude, you can’t just B&E into the Sheriff’s house!” Stiles hisses, only because speaking any louder like he wants to would just cause his throat pain and he would like to avoid any more of that this week.

Derek cocks an eyebrow at him. Stiles narrows his eyes at it hatefully. Because he hates Derek’s ability to convey how dumb he thinks the words coming out of Stiles’ mouth sound on a regular basis, of course, not because he is in any way envious of said ability.

“ _What_ ,” he eventually grouses, falling back into the mini pillow fort that is his bed with a sniff.

“You’re sick,” Derek states. That’s what he does. He fucking _declares a thing that Stiles is very much aware of_. Derek Hale, ladies and gentlemen.

Stiles blinks up at him, slow and languid, before smirking. “Wow, someone give the wolf an award for amazing observational skills.”

Derek scowls at him.

“No, no, seriously. I’m impressed. Do go on, don’t be shy.”

Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski can in any way be hindered by a slight cold. Sarcasm is a beautiful weapon to have in one’s arsenal.

…Even when one is trying to fight off inconvenient full-body shivers, which only end in rattling coughs instead. Stiles shut his eyes and waits for it to end so he can breathe again, almost panicking when it lasts longer than usual until a hand slips onto his shoulder under his hoodie collar and the suffocating feeling eases. He sits up, drawing in a deep break and letting it out shakily, letting himself lean into Derek’s pain-leeching hand for a moment before pulling away and breaking the hold.

“Okay, look,” Stiles says, suddenly impatient, as he glares up half-heartedly at a frowning Derek. “You’ve checked up on me, great; I’m fine, _you’re_ fine, everything’s dandy and back to normal, hallelujah. Now, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of Fight Club and shit’s starting to get intense, so…”

He turns back firmly to his laptop and drags it back to his lap with more force than it requires, mostly because he can’t kick at Derek without hurting himself and he’s got no energy for a shouting match just yet. And, trust him, there is going to be one. 

Also, if he looks up at Derek, he’s pretty sure he’ll be faced with his upset/angry pout, which is _ridiculous_ , by the way, and not something Stiles wants to deal with right now, it can wait until tomorrow, please and thank you.

Derek lingers by his bed like he wants to say something but when Stiles continues ignoring him - the movie isn’t even _playing_ , he’s just staring at the gross paused image of Tyler Durden’s burned hand - he sighs and finally moves away. Stiles tenses, _sure_ that he’s going to add something before he leaves; he refuses to look back and check Derek’s expression but when he shifts his gaze, he catches sight of the leather jacket still sitting on his bed, and dives for it.

“And, hey, take your-” Stiles twists to face the window, flinging out the arm holding Derek’s jacket tightly, only to trail off at the empty space before him and the wide open window; “...stupid jacket. Fine.”

He stares at the material bunched between his fingers, irrationally frustrated at it, before throwing it onto his pillows and settling back with the movie.

He finds himself leaning towards it some time around the narrator freaking out over his memory loss, but can’t bring himself to care enough to move away.

(He’d reason that it smells nice, but even in his head, that sounds creepy.)

**

It isn’t until much later that Stiles curiously goes back to the notes he’d been pursuing and stops to stare at the page on Naiads, which he’d overlooked after Derek shot down the idea.

Sure enough, there’s a spell on there, using almost exactly the same ingredients of the one Lydia had sent him.

“What the _fuck_ , Derek,” he whispers angrily to the empty room.

* * *

**VI. ( _the +1_ )**

Stiles is extremely glad that he wakes up the next morning feeling a lot better because he has some serious business to take care of. Business which would be a little bit difficult if his sore throat hadn’t eased up considerably overnight.

He drives over to Derek’s loft in a fit of righteous anger, marches up to his place and wrenches the heavy door open.

Derek stands a few steps away, looking completely unarmed, eyes wide. He stares as Stiles gets into his space, cheeks probably flushed pink from all the frustration that’s been building up in him over this monumental _idiot_.

“You didn’t stick around last night,” he points out.

Derek blinks at him, bunny teeth peeking out of his open mouth. “I don’t- what are you doing here, aren’t you-”

“Sick? Yeah, no, much better now, thanks, and- you know what? I have a bone to pick with you.”

Derek snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head, like he knows where this is going. “Oh, great.”

“No, shut up, you owe me this, okay?” Stiles points a finger at Derek’s chest accusingly. “ _Naiads_.”

A tense silence stretches between them. Derek’s eyebrows drop into a furrow and then his gaze flicks away from Stiles for a moment, which only makes him more suspicious.

“What about them?”

“What ab- _you tell me, Derek_. See, I distinctly remember you saying, with all confidence, ‘ _they’re not real_ ’.” If Stiles weren’t on a roll, he’d stop to laugh at the insulted look he gets at the (very accurate, in his opinion) imitation of Derek’s voice that he does. But as it is, he has no time for that right now. “And then we go to the lake and, surprise surprise, there’s a _water nymph_!”

“Haven’t we been over this?” Derek interrupts with an impatient huff. But Stiles knows him, right, and he knows Derek’s fingers don’t twitch against his sides when he’s _impatient_ , nor does he avoid Stiles’ direct gaze like the plague. No, no, these are not signs of impatience; what they _are_ is very telling of the fact that Derek wants to change the topic and/or escape this confrontation of feelings- no, wait, backtrack; confrontation _fullstop_. Neither of which Stiles will let him do until he has some definitive answers and not just the wild speculations of his overly excitable brain.

“No, no we haven’t, because you changed the topic last time to ‘ _don’t be stupid, Stiles, Naiads aren’t nymphs and what we saw were definitely nymphs_ -”

“I don’t even _sound_ like that-”

“Shut up, you do. But, hey, guess what, Mister I Know Supernatural Creatures? Naiads are distinctly related to water nymphs! What a shock, right? And turns out their lore is similar enough that I could have found a way to shut down the water nymph directly. _If_ you hadn’t basically implied that looking at Naiad lore would be a waste of time because _apparently they’re not fucking real_!”

“I was hoping we could get rid of them alone, alright?” Derek grits out, jaw tensing.

Stiles stops, stunned, his eyes going wide. “You- what?”

He’s about to let the hurt explode outwards when Derek adds, finally looking at him with a soft sort of resignation. “What’s happened the three times the nymphs attacked us?”

Stiles’ eyebrows slowly inch up. “I...saved your asses twice? I don’t-”

“You also _got hurt each time_.”

Ah. So that’s what this is all about? Stiles feels an old spark of indignation and anger rise up and he pushes his shoulders back, hands clenches into fists by his side. “Seriously? You telling me you tried keeping me away because of my oh-so-fragile human-ness?” And, it _hurts_ , okay, because he had really thought he’s proved himself enough times for them all to see his- his worth, however pathetic that sounds - but this coming from _Derek_ out of all people? “What, you got sick of having to haul my hurt ass to safety at the end of the day? Fuck you, who’s the one who stopped you _all_ from being turned into the nymph’s play toys, huh? And jumped into freezing water to pull _you_ out, the _second time that’s happened_ , in case you’ve forgotten! And here I was, thinking we’d made progress.” An involuntary humourless chuckle escapes him. “Want me to chuck those words back at you, Derek? What was it- _you need me to survive_ , right? Well-”

“-of course I-we _need you_ but we need you _alive_!” Derek cuts in, abrupt and aggravated and eyes _blazing_.

Stiles falters, hands windmilling vaguely in the air as he loses momentum of the rant and the words practically skid to a sudden halt in his throat. He blinks a few times rapidly and has to clear his throat twice before his voice cooperates and starts working again, albeit coming out rough and uncertain. “I- yeah, I mean? I know that.”

And… he does, okay? He really does. He’s not being an insecure shit but it’s hard not to doubt certain things when all the evidence seems to point to the contrary, and Stiles is getting the awful feeling that this has all been one major fucked up misunderstanding.

(Derek had said ‘ _I’_ first, a sneaky voice in my head whispers.)

Watching Derek’s eyes track over his face, both of them now calmed down considerably but still breathing hard, he thinks he’s not the only one. He’s also just realised that they’re standing a lot closer than usual, the air between them almost crackling with all the pent up- _energy_ (tension-filled sparks but it’s not _anger_ anymore) from both their words. Stiles can’t bring himself to back up, step away; can come up with no reason why he _should_ , when he can feel Derek’s breath hot on his face and count his eyelashes and try to read the hundreds of emotions flicking through every ridiculously-coloured speck of his eyes.

Derek watches him silently for a moment more before saying, quiet now as if loud noises would set Stiles off again, “Why are you really angry?”

And. Well. That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

“You… You can’t just go off with your betas and leave me out of things. Leave _us_ out - Scott and me. We… What I said, before. About us being a team. You gotta let us in, man,” Stiles says lowly, watching Derek’s mouth as he huffs out a soft breath and twists it into a wry sort of smile that, when Stiles looks up again, lights something inside his eyes that sends little sparks scattering down his spine.

The silence stretches for so long that Stiles starts to slump back, thinking morosely that that’s it, Derek’s got nothing to add, they’ve both said what they needed and now things will resume how they-

But then there’s a hand tentatively pressing against his cheek, nudging his face up, and Stiles’ breath catches in amazement because Derek’s a _lot_ closer than before; his eyes are on Stiles’ mouth and, _oh_ , he tilts his head just slightly and glances up to meet Stiles’ stunned stare with a soft question from under his ridiculous eyelashes.

Stiles breathes out a “ _yeah_ ” without really noticing and then there are lips touching his, cautious and so, so, soft, a gentle peck that’s barely a whisper of a touch, and Stiles is sure he’s not breathing, until Derek finally presses in with a hard kiss. Then, _then_ , they’re pressing against each other, hands clutching at shoulders and fisting in hair, lips moving over each other with the kind of smoothness that sends electricity zipping through Stiles’ skin. He parts his lips to draw in breath and Derek nips at his bottom lip lightly before pulling away with a softer kiss at the corner of Stiles’ mouth, leaning their foreheads together while Stiles tries to catch his breath because fucking _wow_ , that just happened.

He doesn’t realise he’s said that out loud until he leans his head back enough to stare at Derek, and Derek stares back, his own eyes pretty wide, and- “What?”

“What,” Stiles says back almost defensively, right before deciding to fuck it all and diving back in for another kiss (that first one ended _way_ too quickly). He’s gratified by the soft noise at the back of Derek’s throat when Stiles licks into his mouth, emboldened all of a sudden, putting his all into it until he has to pull away, both their breathing slightly ragged - from, he suspects, the unspoken things they’re pouring into the kisses more than the action itself.

When he braves a glance up from Derek’s red, wet lips (that’s from _him_ , _he_ did that) and catches the ridiculously fond look in his hooded eyes, all soft and bright and _trusting_ , he’s pretty sure his heart tries to beat its way out of his chest with all the warmth spreading over him.

“I let you in plenty,” Derek says quietly on an exhale, gaze dropping to trace the path of the moles on Stiles’ face before he leans in to pepper soft butterfly kisses on them.

It startles an almost-choked laugh out of Stiles and he shudders as Derek’s fingers rub at the soft hair at the nape of his neck; turns his head to catch their lips in a short, searing kiss.

“I know. I… I’m sorry, for accusing you of all that shit,” he murmurs; his hands sliding up from Derek’s waist to clutch at his shoulders.

Derek shakes his head, the closeness of their faces turning it into an almost nuzzle, and Stiles fights another shiver at the feeling of Derek’s beard rubbing against the skin of his jaw. “No, you- you were right.”

Stiles pulls back to blink at him, unable to bite back the shit-eating grin that crooks his lips. “ _I_ was right? Can I get that in writing?”

Derek rolls his eyes but there’s no denying the affection in his gaze (it just makes Stiles grin wider, this time more genuine, because _that’s for him_ ). “You were,” he says, earnest in a way that Derek only is when he lets down his tough guard and unnecessary shields and- oh.

This time, Stiles doesn’t bother trying to fight down the warmth bubbling up in his chest, spreading through his body until his fingers tingle with it and his head feels light. “You’re ridiculous,” he tells Derek happily, feeling slightly drunk. Kiss-drunk? Is that a thing? Well, Stiles is feeling it, so it’s probably a thing.

“ _You’re_ \- whoa, hey.”

...Okay, that tingly feeling is possibly less kiss-drunkenness and more the intensity of the last… however long… catching up on him?

“I, uh,” Stiles blinks hard when he realises the only thing holding him up is Derek’s arms around his waist, which should be embarrassing but is mostly just warm, because his feet are definitely tingling right now and also his head is spinning a bit.

“I thought you said you were feeling better!”

“I was! Am? Uh, okay, I may have been ignoring a headache and also, sleeping sounds nice, I think.” Stiles squints at the side of Derek’s disgruntled face and frowns lightly, then perks up when he’s hit with an idea. “You have a bed!”

Derek looks vaguely startled. “I do…”

“Great, awesome, lead the way.”

“Stiles, we’re not… I mean, you’re…”

Stiles has enough energy to push against his shoulder and roll his eyes (which he regrets after the act because _ow_?). “No, dumbass,” he says as Derek begins to shuffle him towards his bed anyway, “Don’t worry, we’ll leave any and all sexytimes for when I’m not at risk of collapsing on you mid-handjob.”

“...oh my god,” Derek mutters before dumping Stiles - gently, of course - on the bed. Stiles isn’t sure if that’s because he used the word ‘sexytimes’ in a sentence or because he’s now put the image of mutual handjobs between them in both their heads. (He’d like to think it’s the latter.)

Sadly, he is definitely not up ( _heh_ ) for any kinds of sexy shenanigans at all right now, so instead he sinks down contently into the pillows and tugs at Derek to lie down next to him. Once he does so, Stiles flips onto his side and rearranges their limbs until he’s being spooned comfortably, humming happily as he drags Derek’s left arm over his own waist to drape over him.

“What are you _doing_ -“ Derek starts to say from behind him.

Stiles huffs. “Oh my god. Just shut up and cuddle me.”

Derek grumbles, “Now who’s the bossy one?” But he does hold on a little tighter and bury his face into Stiles’ neck, so Stiles just grins happily and curls back into him; completely and utterly content, for the first time in a while.

**

They’re both startled awake by the sound of the loft door sliding open and Erica shrieking something unintelligible and excited, then Isaac exclaiming, “About _time_.”

Stiles groans and buries his face into Derek’s pillow, while Derek props himself up on an elbow to glare at them all - as menacingly as he can after being caught spooning by his betas. “You- shut up. What are you _doing_ here?”

Stiles peeks an eye open and blinks at them. Erica is leaning against the door, grinning at them in satisfaction; beside her, Boyd turns an expectant eyebrow and a raised hand at Isaac, who scowls and digs through his pocket to dump what looks like a twenty-dollar bill into his open hand. Boyd tucks it into his own pocket with a smirk.

“What… what just happened?” Stiles mumbles blearily, narrowing his eyes at them all.

“You two finally got your heads out of your asses and won me and Boyd twenty bucks each from every pack member,” Erica sing-songs, also turning to a grudging Isaac for money. Before Stiles or Derek can do anything more than blink dumbly at them, still processing, she adds, “Oh, also we’d come to ask if you’d seen Stiles, Derek, because his dad and Scott were asking around since he apparently disappeared from his bedroom surprisingly early, but it’s fine, we can tell them to stop worrying now.”

With a wink, she turns around and saunters out, followed by a smug Boyd and a sulking Isaac.

Stiles stares at the door as it slides shut, then flips over onto his back with a sigh. He looks lazily over at Derek, who’s still propped over him, and lets a slow smile out. “So…”

Derek cocks his head down at him. “So,” he prompts, one hand circling Stiles’ wrist and trailing over the veins there with a light touch that leaves behind tingles and goosebumps.

Stiles grins, lop-sided and probably stupidly adoring, not that he can bring himself to care (about anything, for that matter; the fact that the pack had apparently bet on them getting together, included). “My headache’s gone,” he muses, tracking the way Derek’s hair is squished down on one side from the pillow and trying not to let it melt him because of how fucking adorable it looks. “And I am no longer worryingly tingly.” He pauses, blinks as he ponders over the wording of that sentence; by the look on Derek’s face that’s a mixture of pained and amused, he knows it, so Stiles waggles his eyebrows at him and then wriggles his body suggestively. “Just a little bit tingly in the sexy way.”

He’s rewarded with a quiet puff of laughter and Derek ducks his head to finally kiss him, so sweetly it makes Stiles want to _burst_.

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek breathes out.

Stiles smiles up at him softly. “I know,” he agrees.

_You still like me_ , he doesn’t say; but it’s implied in the next press of their lips.

**

(Note: Derek Hale is the actual best cuddler in the world. Scratch that- in the _universe_. If there was a Guinness World Record for Best Cuddles Known To Man(or Werewolf?)kind then it would go to Derek. No competition.

...Stiles may be a tad biased. So sue him.)

* * *

_WAIT. What's this? A little more? Oh, hey, a sort of alternate ending..._

**_Alternatively,_ dramas dissolve early on with minimal ranting because Derek spits out his feelings as soon as Stiles confronts him (right after him and Scott meet up with the others in part 4)**

Stiles’ anger/betrayal/thingy diffuses all of a sudden when Derek cuts in, looking aggrieved and upset for some reason, “I assumed you’d be recovering from last night, alright?”

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut and a warm feeling spreads all over him from the inside. Derek was _concerned_. About _him_. He slowly grins stupidly while Derek looks increasingly unnerved.

“‘Recovering from last night’ sounds a lot more exciting than what we were actually doing, you know,” Stiles comments casually, because he’s a little shit like that. “Also. You know what they say about _assuming_ , it makes-”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Derek says, looking pained. But not, Stiles notes, like he regrets saying what he did, or taking it back. Instead, he quirks his eyebrows and meets Stiles' eyes with a soft look.

Stiles complies but not before shooting him another bright grin. ( _Derek cares._ )

He gets a reluctant half-smile in return. It’s _glorious_.

**(...and then they kiss and go banish the nymphs together and are adorably gross on the way back while the pack mimes barfing because they won’t stop making eyes at each other, and they get to Derek’s loft and make out loads and basically just leak their feelings all over the place.)**

_But, you know, arguments are more fun, let's be real._

* * *

 

_...As for the jacket (lol), I couldn't find a way to bring it in at the end there because it felt complete, so:_

Stiles brings it up and tries to return it, but Derek shrugs and refutes and just tells him he'll get it back later.

Stiles stares at him for a few seconds through narrowed eyes before exclaiming, "Oh my god, is this a _scent thing?_ Are you waiting for your leather jacket to carry my scent strong enough so that when you wear it, it's-"

" _Stiles,_ ".Derek's cheeks are pinking up, this is too precious.

Stiles is slightly gleeful. "No, no, that's adorable. Is it like being wrapped in a permanent Stiles-hug? You're such a _cuddlewhore_ , oh my god, this is the best."

...

"It doesn't just... it's, both of our scents mingled together, alright?" Derek mutters, hiding his face in Stiles' neck - they're lying in bed - and sighing; Stiles' eyes flutter at the feeling against the tender skin of his neck.

He bites the inside of his cheek to control his grin and slides a hand through Derek's stupidly soft hair. He doesn't say anything; doesn't have to. He thinks he gets it.

**Oh. Okay, another impromptu scene (I swear these things keep writing themselves *peers at them suspiciously*).**

* * *

**i’m a _young_ _lover’s_ rage**

**gonna need a _spark_ to _i g n i t e_**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (what does it say about me that it took months to get out barely 2k words then about a couple weeks or so to write the rest?)
> 
> I am _ridiculously proud_ of this fic, oh god. It's so long. And that was so fun to write, holy fuck. Aelya, bro, you deserve it. *fistbump*
> 
> Like all writers, I thrive on comments and I will honestly love you forever for the smallest thing. :3 (also I may or may not be ignoring a couple of assignments to finish this but yo, _worth it_ )
> 
> To address a couple of loose ends - I know they haven't exactly resolved most of the issues, but well, it's Stiles and Derek. I can't make Derek promise he's not going to try to keep Stiles out of things anymore, because if he thinks it's dangerous enough and he's sick of seeing Stiles get hurt, then he will do it again.   
> And Stiles... well, he'll be reassured of his place in the pack and how bamf he is. He does know it, of course, but we all have doubts about things we shouldn't be doubting. He's only human, after all. 
> 
> *
> 
> Anywho. I hope you all enjoyed that. :3 Thanks for all the kudos/bookmarks and of course the comments! You're all awesome.

**Author's Note:**

> (also feel free to quote fav bits and stuff, it brings me joy :p)
> 
> CHECK US ON TUMBLR: [me](http://deathby-stiles.tumblr.com) aaand [aelya](http://afallengrace.tumblr.com) you wont regret it ;)


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